Таррин Фишер - The Wives

I’ve not moved from the spot where I’m standing, but I’m breathing hard. He’s cleared everything. He wanted me to find this and see...nothing. I set his phone back on the coffee table, careful to position it just the way he had it, then I creep over to my laptop. But it won’t turn on. The power button stays stubbornly dark even when I hold it down. He’s done something to it. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants; my hands are shaking as I punch at the button one last time. I don’t know if I’m angry or afraid. Why would he do this? Or maybe it wasn’t him. Computers stop working all the time. Two...three...four ...it doesn’t turn on. No, I bought this computer just a year ago. It was fine before...before I told my husband that I’d found his other wife, that is.

I find my phone in a rush to text Lo and tell her what’s happened. My thoughts come out in bursts as I glance over my shoulder to see if Seth has stirred in his sleep. I send one text after another until there are dozens of little blue bubbles on my screen. It looks manic and I immediately regret sending them. I delete each one in case Seth looks at my phone, and then wait for her to text me back, for the bubble to appear to acknowledge that she’s seen what I’ve sent, but it doesn’t come.

Seth has hidden my car keys and wallet. It’s just past seven when I grab a change of clothes and dig out the spare car key fob I keep hidden in the junk drawer. I’ll need cash. I bite hard on my lip as I slide the crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet. He keeps another five hundred in the bread box for emergencies. My walk to the kitchen is a long one, and I agonize over what I’ll do if the money is gone, but when I lift the lid, the first thing I see is the wad of cash, cello-wrapped in the corner and sitting next to one lonely raisin. I stuff an armful of necessitites into a bag and, with Seth still slumbering on the sofa, I head for the door. I freeze when the door chimes, the noise so loud in my own ears I’m convinced it has woken everyone in the building. My body tenses; Seth’s hands would be on me at any moment, pulling me back. I whip my head around to see how close he is, ready to sprint away before he gets a grip, but when my eyes search the room, I see him still slumped across the sofa in sleep.

I don’t really know how long I’ll be gone. If I run out of cash I could call Anna, ask her for some money, but she’d insist on coming out here and then I’d have to explain everything. No...think...there has to be another way. And then it comes to me. I head to the elevator, my stomach in my throat. What if he woke up? What would he do to stop me? If he tried to restrain me, would I be able to get away? I could scream, and perhaps a neighbor would come to help. I jab at the elevator button, imagining every terrible thing that could go wrong. Hurry, hurry... It will take him a bit to figure out where I’m going. He’ll check with my mother and Anna first, perhaps the hospital to see if anyone’s heard from me. That will buy me a few hours. As a last resort, he’ll assume I went to see Hannah, but by that time I’ll already be there. As the elevator jars to life, it occurs to me that Seth may have placed a tracking device on my phone. I wouldn’t put it past him, would I? There are apps for that. Phone locators. I hold the phone in my palm and stare down at it. Seth is a planner, Seth leaves no corner unswept. When the doors open, I hesitate only for a moment before I drop it on the floor of the elevator and step out.

There are new planters in front of the house, great big ceramic things that look like they weigh a hundred pounds each. I wonder if Seth hauled them from the car to the path, positioned them for her as she stood a few feet away, calling out instructions. A happy family. She’s planted bright orange and yellow calendulas in them. They sit neatly in the soil, new to the neighborhood and still tame in their growth.

I wonder what else has changed, if she’ll be showing when she opens the door, holding her stomach while she talks to me. I had a habit of doing that even before I was showing, always conscientious of the life growing inside of me. I make my way past the planters and up the path that leads to the front door. I can hear the TV on inside, a show with a laugh track. Good, that means she’s home.

I pause before ringing the bell. I left the house in a hurry and failed to even smooth my hair in the car before rushing out. Oh, well. Too late now. I ring the bell and stand back. A minute later, I hear footsteps and then the click of the lock. The door suctions open and the smell of cinnamon tangles with the night air.

Hannah is standing barefoot in the doorway looking very different than the last time I saw her. She’s wearing pajama pants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. I’m relieved to see her, and she looks well. Her eyebrows pull up when she sees me, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Why that face? I think. But then I’m suddenly self-conscious about my clothes, my hair. I probably look as unhinged as I feel. Hannah—ever so shiny and put together, like a beautiful china piece.

“I—You left a message—I didn’t know if you were okay. You look great!” and then when she stares at me oddly, I add, “I haven’t had my phone...”

My voice catches in my throat. Something isn’t right. Hannah’s face is polite, but stony. The only indication that she’s heard me is the slight widening of her eyes, the whites flashing before her lids drop, sleepy and low, once again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not sure I understand. Who are you here for?”

“You...” I say softly. “I’m here for you.” My voice is a wisp, unsure and quickly evaporated. I right my face, trying to look certain.

She lifts a hand and touches it lightly to the spot below her collarbone. She’s confused, blinking hard. “I don’t know you,” she says. “Do you have the wrong house?” She looks past me to the street, as if to see if anyone is waiting for me, or if I am alone. “What house number are you looking for? I know most of the people on this street,” she asks helpfully.

My mouth opens and closes and I feel a rush of cold prickling my skin from my neck to my heels. My breathing spikes and my eyelids grow warm.

“Hannah...?” I try one last time.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry...” Her voice is firmer now; she wants to get back to her laugh track show.

“I—” I look around, up the street and down. There’s no one outside, just the neat exteriors of the houses, windows lit by warm, yellow light. I feel locked out, isolated inside of myself. The warm, yellow light is not for me, it’s for other people. I take a step back.

“It’s me, Thursday,” I say. “We’re both... I’m married to Seth, too.”

Her eyebrows draw together and she glances behind her into the house.

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. Let me get my husband, maybe he can help you...”

She’s turning around, calling to someone inside. That’s when I notice then that her hair isn’t tied back in a low ponytail like I thought; rather, it’s cropped short—a pixie cut.

“Your hair,” I say. “Did you cut it recently?” I notice her belly, too, the flatness. I almost lift a hand to my own in confusion.

She looks afraid now, her eyes darting around for help. She lifts a hand to touch it, right at the nape of her neck.

“I hope you find who you’re looking for,” she says, and then shuts the door in my face. The smell of cinnamon is cut off and I’m left with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves.

I stumble back, turning around halfway down the path and running across the street to my parked car. As I fumble with the door, I turn back to look at the house, and see a shift of the drapes on the second floor, like someone is peeking out. Her—Hannah. But why is she claiming not to know me? What is happening? I climb into the car and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, my breath hissing from my lips in soundless heaves. This is crazy, I feel crazy. The thought is so uncomfortable that I quickly turn the car on and drive away from the house. I’m afraid she will call the police. How would I explain?